


Primal//Carnal

by GoreCorset (CorsetJinx)



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Church Sex, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Frottage, Physical Abuse, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Established Relationship, Snuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 16:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9193649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/GoreCorset
Summary: She'll get it right this time. It's not as if she hasn't learned some of the Bloody Crow's patterns by now. Even if she can't make it up to the Crow who'd helped her, she can avenge her.Or so she tells herself.





	

The window's frame didn't give no matter how hard she pushed. The metal was cold and she could feel it through her gloves like a nip from a beast's jaws. The Autumn chill sinking into the warm leather, leather which had seen better days, which had grown soft with constant wear and tear. Each time she pushed upon the window's cold frame, her thinning gloves allowed the chill to sink further still into her hands. At least her coat went a ways towards keeping out the ever-present chill, old Henryk's patchwork stitching and mending of the leather making it sturdier than she had initially expected. The ropes and knives attached to the coat had proven useful as well – both in her attempts to keep the beasts at bay and in aiding her perilous climb of the Grand Cathedral's exterior.

She had initially tried the door as any person would, yet every time the Bloody Crow had been waiting at the altar, and every time since she'd first run in with the headstrong desire to avenge the woman Crow he'd left for dead, Priscilla had met her end. He'd killed her twice with his peculiar sword – blade slicked in his own blood before he'd turned it against her flesh. Whatever the swirling metal was made of, whatever effect it had on its wielder, she was certain she had felt it as well, eating away at her from the inside even after it had withdrawn from her body.

Once, he had shot her in the head, point-blank with the gun she later learned from the Executioner Alfred was called an 'Evelyn.' Priscilla had hardly felt it. The world had simply gone dark after a burst of thunder practically in her ear and a flash like a Molotov going off, then she'd woken in the Dream - gasping and holding her ears like a child afraid of a storm. Wild eyed and frightened, she'd turned her gaze to the Doll, the ever present messengers who called out to her, reached for her. She never wanted to experience such again.

This time things would be different. This time she would have the element of surprise on her side.

The auburn haired hunter eyed the circular window, the broken glass that still lingered in the frame itself. Lifting her elbow, she smashed some of the glass - at least enough to allow her to pass through without fear of getting cut to ribbons. The smell of incense and candles, blood and dust rose to meet her nose - distracting her from the reminiscence. She edged her way through, lowering her back as much as she could in the hopes of not catching her threaded cane on whatever glass might remain. A short drop allowed her to hunker down on the balcony above and behind the headless statue of a woman's figure holding an urn, what could have been water or blood pouring out. A wizened tree obscured her view of the statue for the most part, rising up out of the stone floor as if by some faded miracle. Dust puffed up in little clouds around her as she landed.

She adjusted her mask, glad that it protected her from the worst of it, and crept around to one of the branches of the tree rising up – one close enough for her to grab onto and climb. Gloved fingers curled around the gnarled, grey wood, silently praying to the Old Ones that it might hold her weight. That the tree was as sturdy as it looked. Before she moved any further, she allowed her green eyes to sweep across the expanse below her. To take in what sights she could from this angle and this high off the ground.

Looking down, candlelight blinded her for a moment – although all but the ones closest to where the damaged beast's skull – Laurence's skull – rested were long extinguished. Even still the flames reflected off the metal embossing what she assumed to be the Vicar's seat and the expansive decoration she could glimpse off of it. The burnished radiance it cast made her eyes ache after they'd gotten used to the dim streets of Cathedral Ward, stained in hues of red by the great, frightful red moon.

She couldn't see the Crow or the lantern, not at first. It was only when he moved and some of the light from the altar reflected off his silver helm that she was certain of where he was. He'd turned his head, cocking it to listen for some far off sound, and she held her breath. Perhaps he'd heard her break the glass in the window. Or her drop down from it – she hadn't exactly been quiet she now realized. A curse would have bubbled past her lips were it not for the fear that nipped her nerves. She was certain that should she make enough noise, he would turn fully to face her. To lift his elegantly engraved pistol and shoot at her from so far below. There was a possibility of a bullet hitting its mark even from such a distance, she might fall over the banister and... perish.

It was the last thing she wanted.

However, given the sheer size of the Cathedral itself and how high the ceiling still was, she found herself doubting that he had heard her. Doubting that he had any idea she was even within the Cathedral once more, especially with the way that she had come in. If, she knew well enough, he heard her, he would face the direction of the sound and hunt her down. He'd done it before the last time she'd attempted to sneak up to him. She simply had to keep reminding herself of such a fact.

Still, she waited for him to face the stairs again before she moved as quickly and quietly as she could manage. To her relief, the tree neither groaned nor bent and swayed beneath her weight. It held still as a statue even when she began to practically crawl onto the the extended limb. Her yellow leather coat, previously having belonged to the swift-footed, maddened hunter Henryk, brushed over the banister, kicking up dust in its wake. With each careful movement Priscilla made, she paused long enough to listen for the footsteps of the blood drunk hunter below.

It seemed for all the noise that crowded her own ears, the Bloody Crow didn't hear her. Or, as it was possible, he was not willing to acknowledge her presence just yet.

Climbing along the tree's branch and to the trunk itself, shimmying down to hop onto the woman's pedestal wasn't the hard part she quickly discovered. It was finding a place on the elaborate effigy to put her feet that proved tricky. Her initial attempt brought her to hang precariously from the urn woman's pedestal, shuffling her grip along the stone until she was more or less over the Vicar's seat. The stone was smooth to the touch and covered in a thick layer of dust, making her grip onto the marble tighter than she normally would have.

Glancing down was a mistake. She shuddered to herself at the sight of the drop that waited – less than tumbling headfirst over the balcony would have earned her, but still enough to promise a painful landing amidst the display of Saints and slowly melting candles if she didn't clip the edge of the Vicar's seat on the way down. Not to forget the promise of a gruesome death if the Cainhurst born Crow got to her first, either with his sword or his pistol.

Keeping the rising wave of nausea brought on by the revelation at bay, the yellow clad hunter sucked in a shallow breath and held it to steady her nerves, willing her feet not to scrabble uselessly at her current perch. Her hands ached from holding her weight up but she ignored it in favor of turning her head to look for the next spot of her descent. If she managed to align herself enough to reach the gilded edge of the Vicar's seat, she would be able to shimmy down to the small dais above the beast's skull - and then down to the altar itself.

And if she could get past the candles without the worry of setting her coat or scarf alight, she would have a straight shot at the man stalking around the lantern. Glancing over her shoulder she tried to see whether he'd turned at any of the noise she'd surely been making. Her heart thundered in her chest, blood rushing through her body faster than it had any right to. It took a moment to focus upon the world beyond the edges of the folded over fabric of her collar, or the shadow that had been cast by the candlelight below. At first, she couldn't see her target. No sign of the crow feather garb he wore, spliced with the garb of Queen Annalise's guards. Thin dark brows drew together with worry, a flicker of fear spilling across her face. It was only by squinting that she finally catch sight of him – he'd moved to the stairs and seemed to be peering down their length as though looking for something. Or someone.

Briefly, she wondered if a beast or giant had approached the doors, lured by the scent of blood.

Putting it from her mind, Priscilla glanced between her intended landing point and her current one, shifting her hold on the lip of stone she was currently on. Then, she let go. The drop was sudden, gravity dragging her down like a cat pulling a bird from the air. With a suddenness and a dull ache, her gloved fingers caught on the raised edge of the Vicar's seat and halted her swift descent, boots supporting a portion of her weight as she hung there – partly amazed she'd made it at all.

Not wanting to waste her time and allow her target to see her, she swung around, moving along the side of the seat until she had the chance to carefully climb down one of the legs of the grandiose seat, hopping to be well clear of the lit candles. Peering down she tried to estimate the angle she would need to be at in order to jump off the dais and upset the golden box-like ornament behind her and not tangle her legs in the ceremonial cloth as she came down. Or knock the skull from its resting place on the altar.

Unfortunately, her position brought her the closest to what she'd been dreading the most: the candles that were still alight.

Taking as much care as she could, she snatched up the tails of her coat with a hand, praying that the long, tattered scarf adorning the yellow garb had been caught up with it, bunching the leather as best she could to avoid it catching flame. She could only gather so much, however, as her threaded cane offered a slight obstacle. Even still, relief briefly washed over her, for the weapon had remained secured to her person, resting across her back. Glancing around she realized just how well she'd trapped herself – nowhere to go but down and hope that the candles didn't catch on her worn garments. Unless she wanted to risk making more noise, she could begin climbing back up and around. That or shimmy along the dais and try her luck at getting to one of the kneeling Blood Saint statues without knocking one of the tall, mostly untouched candles over. She could draw her weapon, give a wide sweep and try to put out the candles with a gust. Yet there was the possibility she might accidentally transform the cane...

She made her decision and swiped at the candles with the tails of her coat, half-hoping that the sudden draft would be enough to extinguish a few and give her more room to work with. The flames guttered, but didn't quite go out, and so she tried again. Knives clinked in their places around her middle, the leather producing a surprising amount of noise as she swatted at the candles. A sense of dread began to swell within her belly, made all the heavier by the weight of her current situation.

A different sound, neither cloth nor the strange faint howling she swore came from somewhere beyond the cathedral caught her attention, pulling her gaze up from the dancing points of light that defied her attempts to put them out. Her brain only just had enough time to register the gleaming barrel of a gun right before the one person she'd been trying to avoid drawing notice from pulled the trigger.

The glittering candles danced at the edges of her vision, all at once seeming to grow very still when she heard the bark of the elaborate Cainhurst made weapon.

Pain roared to life across her back, her body rocking forward violently, only for her to tumble from the dais – sick with the horrible moment of weightless free-fall before she hit the altar and fumbled instinctively for a blood vial. Twisting this way and that, knocking down the old candles, and fresh ones which had been snuffed out by her fall, wax spreading, smearing across her coat, scarf, weapon and the altar. Fingers grasped, pulling a vial free from her belt, turning it with ease and administering the liquid as needed. The pain from the injection was considerably less severe, a sharp sting from a bee compared to the fiery blossom which still held a monopoly on her nerves. Lingering for only a moment, she scrambled to get up, to reach for her gun, all to no avail. Armored hands seized her by her ankles and jerked her down. The air within her lungs came out in a yelp, a new pain bursting within her senses. The whole world span out of focus, blurring into a greyish mass.

The hunter met the altar with a hard thud, squashing candles beneath her bruising back, legs dangling over the edge. Yet they dangled only for a moment before those metal encased hands grabbed her thighs, digits digging into the soft leather. With a rough jerk, she felt the altar sliding out from beneath her, any trapped candles and candle holders coming with her. Scattering over the ornate stone floor. Her head smacked against the chill floor as the Bloody Crow pulled her down from the altar and its terrible skull. The motion loosed her hat from her head and the impact briefly turned her vision white – clouding her senses with white noise.

It was such a blessing that whatever the Plain Doll did to her over the long, dreadful hours of the hunt this eve, allowed her to survive such abuse. She was certain she should have cracked her skull wide open when he pulled her down from such a height. She was certain that she should have lost consciousness for longer than the seemingly brief moment which had passed. Priscilla tried to focus upon the man above her. To focus on the glimmering silvery mask he wore, the deep navy of his attire. Her thoughts were whirling, a throbbing pain filling her skull. She began to lift her arms, to do her best to swipe at him. Yet her attempts to push him off failed completely, her lack of coordination costing her precious seconds. Something heavy and warm interposed itself between her spread legs, those same hands that had grabbed her legs now pinning her arms high above her head. Silvery gauntlets dug into her wrists, pressing them roughly into the stone. Her arms ached, back arching to try to offer some relief. Her legs rose in an attempt to knock the Crow from his place between her legs. She kicked ineffectually at his back, knee crooking over his hip and not doing much at all to deter the Bloody Crow above her.

The squarish line of her threaded cane pressed painfully into her back and she couldn't feel the familiar weight of her gun in its holster anymore – the thought of it having fallen out and onto the floor somewhere was both likely and paralyzing. When she blinked aside the spots dancing across her vision she looked up to see the Crow's silver visor peering down at her and shuddered at the lack of visible eyes to associate him with. There were so many carvings upon the helm, too many for her to decipher. Too many to focus on. And really that was the last thing she ought to focus on. He was such an imposing figure, especially up close and personal. The thick garb of the Crow Hunters made him look larger than he was, made him appear even more imposing. Green eyes swept over his mask, dipping to his chest, the small silver bell that dangled between them.

Each breath she took felt as though it might be her last and, truly, she was certain it was.

The Crow leaned in, pressing more of his weight upon her, closing whatever distance might lay between them. The backs of her thighs, her bottom pressed into the tops of his thighs. She could feel a slight chill through her own trousers, the press of metal into her legs from where her thighs met his own. The more she struggled, kicking and bucking, the more it caused her hips to grind against his. Each movement on her part did little to help in her fight, only furthering her almost awkward rocking against her captor's lap. Short blunt teeth pressed into her lips as she slowly began to give up. To stop fighting. Why bother when all her kicking did was cause her to awkwardly grind against him and force the lip from one of the short stairs leading up to the altar to dig sharply into the small of her back. Her threaded cane dug sharply into her shoulder and across her back, yet did little to distract her from her current predicament.

A voice, younger than she'd expected, emerged from behind the heavily carved helm to taunt her. "Not the best climber, are you?"

Unexpected heat climbed up her cheeks at that, hidden for the most part by the mask that covered half of her face. He was making fun of her? His first words spoken to her were to make fun of her? Well... at least it meant he wasn't too far gone. But was that really something to be relieved over? Did it not make the situation all the more terrifying? She really didn't want to linger on the thought. Pushing back into the floor once more, Priscilla tried to dislodge the Bloody Crow with a newly found determination. Several of the old hunter's tools joined the cane in digging into her person, but she did her best to ignore the sparks of pain that shot up her spine. She tried to jerk her arms out of the Crow's grasp, twisting her body this way and that. Thrashing her arms, kicking her legs, proved ineffectual once more, only furthering her discomfort. The points of his gauntlets dimpled the leather sleeves of her coat as he tightened his grip, close but not quite enough to aggravate flesh.

“You will release me.” She shot back at him, sounding braver than she really felt. Mostly it was irritation that had her respond, fueled by fear and discomfort. "I'll face you but not – not pinned like some butterfly for study!"

A part of her regretted the words the instant she said them. She sounded less like herself and more like some scripted character in someone's play. The words lingered upon her tongue, mind seeking to find new words to replace the ones which had spilled free. Her bravado echoed back to her ears from the Cathedral's high walls and higher ceiling, sounding thin and strange as it did. It stung, feeling like life was mocking her.

The Crow only snorted, a minor thing within his helmet, and pressed her down into the floor. His legs pushed against her own, stilling her assault on his person. Her thighs tensed against his own, calves framing his hips. Her arms flexed, strained, as his hands drove her wrists into the floor. In a low, soft tone he said, "You should have stayed in your library with your butterflies."

Hips, aligned with hers, rocked forward and against her better judgment she shivered as her muscles lost their tension and threatened to go pliant. He did it again and her breath came out in a soft little gasp, trapped heat forming a layer of condensation on her skin and she unconsciously bucked against him. Twisting her eyes shut, Priscilla's mind threatened to go blank. The feel of his hips rocking into hers was so sudden, so shocking, that she simply couldn't compute. He couldn't be doing what she believed he was. Getting some perverse pleasure from pinning her like this, from upsetting her so. Had he mistaken her thrashing, bucking, as some invitation for a sexual encounter? Her cheeks grew flush with the thought.

With all her thoughts fighting for dominance, she nearly missed the shift in the Crow's weight. A part of the weight holding her down disappeared and she felt something tugging at the ties of her mask. Prying the binding on her mask free, the sides of her mask falling open little by little. His pace was unhurried as he uncovered her features. His hips still rose to meet hers, rocked into her. Distracting her.

Cool air touched her face and cooled her skin, allowed her to breathe more deeply as the Crow set the pace for his deliberate frotting against her. The creak of leather and the rustle of the strips of fabric that looked like feathers around his shoulders seemed obscenely loud in the quiet of the Cathedral, the only evidence from him that the situation upset his composure was the faint sound of his breath quickening from the confines of his helm.

"I thought it was you." He sighed. He did not immediately pin her arm back down, hand instead touching the tips of his gauntlet's fingers to her cheek. She belatedly thought to strike him then – grab the length of silvery-white that spilled out from under his helmet and jerk his head back, or ball up her fist and punch him in the throat. Something, anything to gain control over the situation once more.

Between the words he'd spoken and the rush of blood in her ears, spurred on by the tilt and press of his hips, the thought fled.

"You know me?" She asked, keeping her free hand limp and docile by her head on impulse.

"Byrgenwerth." Was his only answer before his hand left her face and he pulled back slightly, lack of his weight and warmth against her leaving her momentarily confused and cold. He reached between them and had she been able to crane her head very far she would have tilted her head to follow the motion. All her ears caught was the rustle of cloth and the feeling of something warm and heavy brushing past her legs – then the odd sensation of pressure upon the crotch of her pants, a tightness that had not been present before.

It revealed itself in the sound of tearing leather and a gust of air against her privates. Shock and a bolt of terror so strong that she struggled to get out of his one-armed hold caused any thoughts she had to attempt to continue their conversation to flee. Her legs couldn't do more than flex and bump uselessly against the backs of his thighs, but at least she could swing at him. Her attempt to punch him ended with his armored hand clasping hers and forcing it down to the hard marble floor once more. A loud gasp burst past her lips, her back arching to relieve the pressure in her arms. Her hips jerked, twisting this way and that to attempt to dislodge him, but he was too close and had given her almost no room to work with. When he pressed against her once more it was all hot flesh and hardness between her legs. Heat spread across her cheeks, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. She had an idea of what was now nestled against her. The startling revelation made her green eyes grow wide, flicking between what she could see of where their bodies met, and the silver of his helm. Unperturbed by the look upon her face, he rocked, slowly this time, deliberately. The auburn haired woman tipped her head back, screwing her eyes shut.

Her back ached in protest when she tried to arch away from him – though the wound from his Evelyn had closed the spot was still tender and the threaded cane and the stairs they were on didn't do her any favors. A soft moan of discomfort escaped her lips, small gasps following the sound. Her knees pressed into the sides of his hips. Nearly trapping him against her. He shuddered, a tiny little movement, his breath catching the littlest bit when she accidentally squirmed against him. He pressed closer, rolling his hips, and she could feel the faint wetness between her thighs make the motion smoother than it had been previously. His member slid against her folds, pressing into her flesh. He was hotter than she expected, though her knowledge of male anatomy had only sprouted from the medical texts she had once, long ago read. The few memories that she tried to latch on to, to help her ignore how his veiny shaft rubbed against her clit.

"Byrgenwerth." She gasped, latching on to the name of the college with the hopes of distracting him or further distracting herself, fingers flexing against the hold of his hand and feeling the metal remain as cold and immovable as before. There's a memory to go with the name of the college she's sure, but it won't come to her – not when little flickers of heat ran through her belly and thighs almost in time to the slow glide of his flesh over hers. "W-where? When?"

It seemed meaningless to ask but she forced the half-thought questions out anyway with a stubborn sort of will. Teeth catch at her lip, trying as hard as she can to stifle the small sounds which meant to betray her. He chuckled and it surprises her enough that she doesn't immediately shudder when his cock brushes against her folds again, head and shaft teasing the hood of her clit.

"I mentioned a library did I not?" He asked. It almost sounded like a tease, his voice husky and not as distorted as before. He rolled his hips again and brushed her clit with deliberation now, making her arch and squirm. She started to press back, inexpertly moving against him to increase the friction and he sucked in a shallow breath as she does.

There was a memory locked away, somewhere beneath the haze of building pressure within her lower body. A memory that almost called out to her. But if she truly wanted to catch on to it, she would have to distance herself from all of this. From the feeling of his hard member gliding faster along her wet folds. It was like he was determined to wipe all thought from her mind. To make her focus on how her clit throbbed, how wet she was growing. She tried to think, really did, but the Crow adjusted his position once more, pulling his hips away from her. All though left her head when he does not slide against her as before, and a burning sort of stretch came bubbling up from inside of her as he moves. His hips slowly, smoothly joining with hers. Slowly, deliberately thrusting inside of her. A sound like a whimper left her throat and she tightened around him in protest, his grunt the loudest sound she's heard from him so far. He stopped only when the length of him was seated within her quivering core, muscles in his thighs bunched and quivering.

He lowered himself as best he could, her legs parting further accommodate him. The heaviness of his cloak of feathery leather spilled around them, framed them. Shadowing her trembling form. The small bell he wore about his neck made no noise as it came to rest against her chest. He was heavy, but he was not crushing her. Just pinning her. Cool metal touched her cheek, startling her. He was resting the side of his visor against her cheek, nearly tucked his head into the space between her neck and shoulder. The gauntleted hand clasping hers tightened briefly, points of the fingers digging into the back of her hand. It took her mind off the current situation for a moment, but not enough when he moved again. Hips drew back little by little before sliding right back in, quick little thrusts.

"The library." He said, voice tight and almost right next to her ear. "You were shelving books."

The stinging, burning sensation only began to abate somewhat when his thrusts slowed, when he slowly pulled away. She breathed a small, shuddering breath of relief only to whimper again when he takes his time easing back into her. A faint sucking sound reached her ears, and she could feel hot liquid rolling down the curve of her buttocks, quickly cooling. Blood, she thought for a moment. Had he torn her upon his entry? Her brows drew together, green eyes closing tighter. She would not cry, it didn't hurt so intensely as to warrant such a reaction. Her lips parted, sucking in air and releasing it in soft gasps. The hand on hers moved, releasing only one of her arms to slide around her waist. To cause her to arch further and adjust the angle of her hips. His next thrust is smoother, deeper. She hooked her legs around him so that they aren't left dangling off the stair – the lip of the stone pressing uncomfortably into the backs of her thighs if she didn't. Whatever numbness had settled in her thighs dissipated with the movement.

She tried to focus on the information he had provided. Tried picture it – the mention of a library ringing a faint bell but the image won't manifest. Her mind was so overwhelmed by the feeling of him within her. Of his body pinning her down, the sounds of his breathing, panting muffled by the Cainhurst helm. Their hips met again and she found herself arching, feeling warm under the layers of her clothes. A stronger heat had started to build in her lower belly. It shifts and grows when he thrusts his hips and she becomes dimly aware of the sound of their skin meeting in the quiet of the Cathedral.

The indecency of it, obscenity really, draws a deeper flush from her skin that isn't helped as the buttons of his coat catch on hers and leather tugs against leather. He's still left one of her arms free and she grabs at his back, feels the muscles there tense and relax in time with the movements of his hips. Instead of striking him, she searched for purchase, some part of him that she could hold on to as he slides into her again. Her searching fingers brushed over the silvery hair falling from the back of his helm and it vaguely occurred to her that it was actually some sort of plumage, not his own hair.

He's hot, she notes, inside of her and out, the warmth of him apparent as his body moves over hers and the leather of his clothes traps it between them. He doesn't stop her from balling her hand into a fist against his coat, several scraps of cloth she'd mistaken for feathers caught between her fingers. When he drew back, helmet no longer tucked into her neck and tilted his hips to thrust into her again she moaned loudly – clenched around him as something hot and bright sparked under her skin in response. Any pain that might have lingered went unnoticed to her, swept away by the waves of pleasure. Her fingers flexed, tightened, digging into her palms, pulling at the loose strips of fraying fabric she was holding on to.

He didn't stop. Wouldn't stop. His thrusts picked up speed, the sound of skin on skin growing louder as their hips met and he coaxed more noises from her. After the initial rush she raised her hips to meet his, learning his rhythm by feel and instinct and the want for the coil tightening in her belly to release. The slick warmth of her sucking him in with each thrust. Her walls clenched, twitched wildly along his length. Her hips rose to meet his thrusts, tried to follow him each time he slid out. She tugged at the fabric clutched in her hand, letting them go to claw at his shoulders as he moved. Her glove prevented her from getting a steady grip but part of her didn't care enough. Her other hand, still pinned by the Crow, flexed, fingers curling to catch at his own. Or, at least, to try.

Her moans punctured the air, louder than his own. Louder than his grunts and the faint hiss that could be heard every now and again. Green eyes focused upon his masked face, lips parting and closing as if she were trying to speak. To form some kind of words of encouragement. Begging silently for more. More contact, a faster pace, something, anything. As if to reward her for her earnest attempts to bring them both pleasure, the Crow began to thrust into her at a faster pace. Eager to bring her to climax, to watch her face contort with pleasure.

She came suddenly, unexpectedly, the rush hitting her hard enough that she closed her eyes tight – shutting out the candlelight, motes of floating dust around them and the gleam of silver that hid his face. He rolled his hips even so, seeking out the spot inside of her that made her trembling worsen and her voice crack at the edges. She might have clung to him, if he'd let her. She might have buried her face in his chest, the bell, the leather and canvas of his garb be damned. She was only aware of his orgasm as a heat between her legs, inside of her, how he swelled and the sudden pain of his armored fingers piercing the skin of her hand. He shuddered, a low sound echoing from the depths of his helmet, and held himself just above her with the hand that had been grasping her hip.

The pounding of her heart echoed loudly in her ears, blood rushing, pumping through her veins at a pace it only reached when she had slain what were obviously the most difficult beasts within Yharnam. Tipping her head back, her high ponytail dug into the back of her head. Loose locks of reddish brown stuck to her sweat slick skin, curling against her cheeks. The cool air of the Cathedral licked at her exposed skin, a brief chill blossoming over the exposed areas. Exhaustion began to drag at her senses. She wasn't sure when her hand slid from his back, when her legs fell away from him, hips only remaining tilted upwards because of his thighs.

At some point he had released her other arm, had slid his hand off the crest of her hip. She was dimly aware of the sound of something metallic clicking. Long lashes fluttered briefly, and she could faintly see his hands raising something above his head. Her sluggish thoughts did their best to process what she was witnessing, the sight of that familiar blade held just above the Crow's head. Green eyes widened, terror sinking its claws into her heart. Any warm feelings which had taken over were swept away in a mere breath. The blade gleamed in the candlelight, the sinister intent of its reveal causing dread to fill her. Priscilla moved as best she could, reaching for the threaded cane upon her back. By the time her shaky fingers wrapped around the hilt of the weapon, the Chikage was brought down, driving through her abdomen.

The pain was instantaneous. Sudden, sharp, burning and agonizing all at once. The cry which was ripped from her throat was nearly inhuman, the shriek so loud it might have matched the volume of Vicar Amelia's. Heat pooled beneath her, hot blood spilling from the wound caused by the blade. She was certain she could hear the blade scraping the stone beneath her, the metal trembling somewhat because of its owner, because of her. Tears, thick and hot, welled up at the edges of her eyes, spilling freely down her cheeks. Not tears of sorrow, but those brought on by pain. The taste of copper filled her mouth, her throat working to form words. Yet all she could do was gasp out like a fish.

The Bloody Crow removed one hand from his sword, lifting it to his helm. Priscilla watched him, almost not quite seeing him as her world began to grow dim. To spiral around her. She heard, more than saw, his hand meet the lower portion of his mask, sliding around the piece. She closed her eyes, trying to blink away the fog and tears which fogged her vision. She couldn't be certain what he was doing, but occasionally she could hear another metallic click. Something coming away. She had to squint to focus upon him once more, her world tinged in darkness, unfocused and unsteady for the pain which continued to eat away at her. He drove the lower portion of his mask back and driving it further beneath the top of his helm. Another metallic click registered in her panicked thoughts. The sound of something clicking out of place. The toothy grin of the bottom portion of his mask glinted, grinning down at her as he removed the jaw guard. It came away slowly, dropping from his fingers unceremoniously upon the floor.

As her vision began to fade once more, she was briefly aware of his hand rising to push the top portion of his helm back. Allowing her the briefest peak at skin so pale it rivaled Queen Annalise's own. Thin lips, curled faintly at the edges. It was a smirk, she realized sluggishly. His hips slowly drew from her own, cool air ghosting the cool damp flesh between her thighs. He stood, towering over her, tucking himself away.

Done with her.

 


End file.
